Yes, I know it sounds silly. I appreciate you dont quite believe me. You suspect Im doing one of those annoyinglyclosetothetruth jokes again. But trust me, ball fans, Im not making this up. This really happened. Really.

Im willing to make a wager: if the Red Sox win the Fall Classic, John Kerry will be the fortyfourth president of the United States.

I wrote this line last week. I sincerely hope I was offbeam. I dont mean to fuss, but Ive got a stack of cash riding on Bush. Not as much as Halliburton and Bechtel, of course, but enough for a meagre columnist with a frightening proclivity for vintage Jags.

John Kerry, a man whose love for the Olde Towne Team knows no opportunistic bounds, popped up at a rally in Ohio sporting an agreeably discoloured Red Sox cap. Were on our way, were on our way! he declared, mentally picking out curtains for the Lincoln bedroom.

Two things postponed my flight to Rio. First, Kerry singled out Manny Ortiz as his favourite player  a slugger whose contribution to Bostons unfeasible feat was marred only by the fact that he doesnt exist.

Nevertheless, fascinating as my lifelong gambling affliction is to you miserable smut punters, for once my personal issues are beside the point. The point, as I said last week, is that something bigger is in play. Bigger than baseball. Bigger than Bush vs Kerry. Bigger even than my Barclaycard bill.

For ordinary people who sort of thought maybe Ill never get that promotion, maybe they think now anything can happen. I feel more ambitious and more encouraged about things other than the Red Sox because of this sense that things can be turned around. Maybe we can make America a moral force in the world, maybe we can stop genocide. For those of us who live with lost causes, its a very inspiring perspective shift.

Stop the press! An end to genocide because the BoSox reversed the curse? What next? A cure for TB? A man on the moon? Me finding a way to pay off Barclaycard?

Everyones feeling a little heady. At 94 years of age, Bob Dylan is rumoured to be dusting off his harmonica and planning to rerelease The Times they are aChangin as an urban dancehall track. The socalled global justice movement is changing its slogan from Another World is Possible to Come on, We Havent got all Day, You Know? Weve Got Jobs to Go to. ChopChop, Comrades!

And folks, when Calvinism cracks, you just know in your wallet were in for a whole lotta bother!

As the Red Sox clinched their first world title since 1918, a gushing Boston Globe perfectly captured the mood: AT LAST! Pigs can fly, hell is frozen, the slipper finally fits, and Impossible Dreams really can come true.

Ah, Impossible Dreams. Capital I. Capital D. Boy, have I had a few of those. Last night I dreamt I ate a good meal on an airline.

Now thats impossible!

But who knows? Perhaps Professor Power is on to something. Maybe now the Sox have lifted the hex, Ill find my freezepackaged transatlantic beef bourguignon tastes noticeably different to the fish pie? Miracles, my best sources tell me, can happen. Especially if you fly first class.

Iraq might now become a peaceful democratic haven. Ditto the European Union. China may soon transform into a beacon of human rights. An African country might not have a coup for a couple of weeks  really, who knows? America and France, allies. A McDonalds meal, the healthy option.

The possibilities, when you start squeezing them into a column space, are limitless!

And believe me, this stuff matters. In the circles of squares within which I prowl, the question So, waddya reckon, is the world roughly moving in the right sort of direction or what? dominates the casual urbane banter of sophisticated email discussiongroups.

Most people, Im sorry to say, think the world is heading either for annihilation or Armageddon  or both. But thanks to the spread of McDonalds salads options, Vanilla Coke and my column, a small but attractively wealthy minority perceive the world as visibly improving by the hour. The remaining goofs, I hardly need note, have difficulty moving beyond the subject of Star Trek.

I tell you, if theres a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, or a ray of hope beaming from the Starship Enterprise, the vast stinking mass of us will seize on it like ravenous vultures on an ailing legionnaire.

And what Im offering here is hope, for a ludicrously negligible sum, probably taxdeductible.

Meanwhile, if its real revolution youre after, youll have to wait til the Cubs or the White Sox win the World Series.